


All Night Long

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:19:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky gets hurt, Hutch wallows.  Set during and after "A Coffin for Starsky."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Night Long

They watched an old movie on TV that night, at nine o'clock on a UHF station. Well, they started out watching it, but it was boring. Boring characters, boring dialogue, boring direction. Hutch knew a good film noir when he saw one, and this wasn't it.

He shifted restlessly on the couch, sighing a little, and glanced over at Starsky, who could usually be counted on to be riveted to anything with lots of gunfire and tough-talking cops and crooks. To his surprise, Starsky wasn't even looking at the TV. He was looking at Hutch, and as their eyes met, he smiled. Hutch didn't look away, and after a moment, Starsky raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in the direction of the bedroom. That made Hutch smile, too.

Well, why the hell not? He reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the TV off.

It was 9:26. Starsky kept a digital alarm clock on his nightstand which glowed faintly in the dark as Hutch pulled his partner's t-shirt over his head, tossed it aside, and ran his hands over the warm, furry chest. Starsky had a bullet scar near his left shoulder. A memento, he called it. It hadn't been there long, and Hutch touched it carefully. He was still getting used to it.

"Sore?" he whispered.

"Nah," Starsky answered, and then blinked. "I mean, yeah. Kiss it better."

Hutch grinned. "I'll kiss it," he said, and did so, "but no _French_ kisses till you brush your teeth." He tugged at Starsky's zipper and pushed jeans and shorts downward so his partner could step out of them.

Starsky looked hurt. "I had six Junior Mints after dinner. _Six_."

"Yeah, but then you ate all that popcorn in front of the TV and now it's stuck between your teeth."

"The TV's stuck between -- "

Hutch shoved him gently toward the doorway. "Just do it, okay? And don't forget to floss."

Starsky disappeared into the bathroom, muttering all the way. "Man wants a nice romantic evening, a little lovin', a pleasant oasis from the daily grind, and whadda's he get? Heartaches!"

Hutch set the alarm on the clock, kicked his shoes off, and lay down on the bed, smiling. He didn't care about Starsky's teeth. He'd have kissed him if he didn't even _have_ any teeth. But it was a hell of a lot of fun sometimes to hear him bitch.

He closed his eyes, listening to the running water and the pleasant scratching sounds of Starsky's toothbrush. He was tired. The day hadn't been any longer than usual, but twelve-hour shifts could take it out of you, no matter how used to them you were. But they had tomorrow off, and Hutch planned on sleeping very late tomorrow.

He flinched as a hand touched his arm. "Hey, off my side," Starsky said, pushing him lightly.

Hutch let out an exaggerated groan of protest and rolled to his left, making room for his partner, who slid between the sheets. "Mmm," Starsky said, closing his eyes in contentment as his head touched the pillow. Then he opened them again and stared questioningly at Hutch. "Hey, come on." He tugged at Hutch's sleeve. "This ain't formal."

Hutch sat up and removed his shirt. "Starsk, tell me," he said, lifting his hips to slip out of his pants. "Why do I always have to do all the work?"

Starsky yawned. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

"I have to take _your_ clothes off, I have to take _my_ clothes off..."

"Hey, I cooked, didn't I?"

"You didn't cook. You put a frozen pizza in the oven."

"If the oven's on, it's cooking," Starsky said reasonably.

" _I_ made the popcorn." Hutch folded the covers back and crawled beneath them, hiding a smile. He could have gone on verbally jousting with Starsky indefinitely, if there hadn't been so many other even more satisfying things to do with him.

"Yeah, and then nagged me about _dental hygiene_." Starsky gave an aggrieved sigh and held his arms out in invitation. Hutch slid into his embrace. "Swear to God, Hutch, you got some kinda cleanliness fetish or something. It ain't healthy to be so hung up on that stuff. First thing you know, you'll be washin' your hands every five minutes and scared to touch doorknobs. Like Howard Hughes." He stroked Hutch's back and shoulders, and sighed again. "God, you feel good."

"So do you, buddy," Hutch whispered, and kissed Starsky's neck. "So do you."

*****

When Hutch woke, it was midnight and the clock was beeping. He blinked at it for a moment, disoriented, then hurriedly leaned across Starsky and turned the alarm off. Starsky, he noticed, hadn't stirred at all.

Hutch yawned and rubbed his eyes slowly. He didn't want to get up. He certainly didn't want to get up, get dressed, and drive home. But it wasn't a good idea to stay here all night. He knew Starsky didn't agree, that he thought Hutch was being overly cautious. Hutch even suspected he was a little hurt by it, though he'd never said so. They'd spent whole nights together occasionally, when they were too exhausted or just too reckless to care, but it really wasn't smart. And his car was parked in plain view behind Starsky's at the curb. No, there was no reason to give people any more fodder for gossip.

He forced himself out of bed, out of the warm cocoon of bedclothes and flesh, and dressed as quietly as he could. At one point, moving clumsily in the dark, he stubbed a toe against a bedpost and let slip a fervent curse before quickly muffling it and hopping, wincing, on one foot until the pain subsided. But Starsky slept on.

Finally, dressed and ready to go, he approached the bed and smiled down at his partner. Starsky was lying on his back, his left arm flung out to the side as though reaching for an absent lover. He was as deeply asleep as Hutch had ever seen him, his breath coming slow and quiet, his chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly.

He pulled the covers up to Starsky's chin. It was a little chilly tonight, sweater weather really. After they'd made love (not very athletically; they were tired) he'd watched as Starsky fumbled drowsily under his pillow and pulled out the royal blue pajamas Hutch had given him. "Don't wanna freeze my ass off after you leave," he'd said, yawning, as he wriggled into the bottom half. Hutch had fallen asleep with the comforting feel of soft cotton and hard muscles pressed pleasantly close.

He ruffled Starsky's disheveled curls fondly, whispered "Sleep tight," and went home. It was 12:07.

*****

The next time he saw Starsky the clock read 4:13. He'd torn out of the cottage, shoes untied, hair uncombed, tugging at his zipper, and driven through the lonely pre-dawn streets with no regard at all for stop signs or traffic signals. He hadn't seen any lights flashing in his rear view mirror, which was fortunate, since he wouldn't have been responsible for his actions if some hapless uniform had tried to pull him over.

When he reached the apartment, he almost didn't wait for the car to stop before he flung himself out and up the stairs, sliding his gun out of its holster as he went. He unlocked the front door with his left hand, holding the gun in his right, and shoved it open, letting it bang back against the wall. His eyes swept the room, and he noted instinctively that nothing appeared to be disturbed. He shouted Starsky's name, but there was no answer. He covered the distance to the bedroom at a run and skidded to a halt in the doorway. Starsky was lying on the floor in a pool of light from the bedside lamp, the telephone almost underneath him. It was buzzing obnoxiously, its receiver sprawled crosswise across the cradle as though Starsky hadn't been able to replace it correctly after he'd called. His eyes were open, and at Hutch's hushed "Starsk?" he blinked, slowly.

Hutch went to him, sinking to his knees beside him, shoving the phone out of the way. "Starsk, what the hell..." he murmured, letting the words trail off as he rolled Starsky carefully onto his back and explored the naked upper body. He couldn't see any blood, any wounds, any explanation for why his partner was lying immobile. He looked at Starsky's face. The eyes were almost all pupil, and the lips were moving soundlessly. Hutch leaned closer, trying to hear, and Starsky gestured clumsily with his left hand, pointing vaguely to the right. "Arm," he whispered. Hutch could barely understand him. "Needle."

Hutch went cold at the word. But Starsky's head was turning sluggishly from side to side. "No. Somethin' else." He paused for breath, and, wild with impatience, Hutch felt a terrible desire to shake him. "Guy...shot me up with...somethin'. Said I had...twenty-four hours...to live."

*****

Hutch's head didn't come in contact with a pillow again until almost six o'clock the following morning. That was when the doctor told him his partner was out of danger, and reluctantly agreed to have a cot moved into Starsky's room. Hutch pushed it up against the bed -- what the hell difference did it make what the nurses thought? -- and collapsed on it, expecting to join his partner in blessed unconsciousness within seconds. Instead he stayed awake for a while -- reaching to touch Starsky's hand, listening to his steady breathing, watching the slow, comforting bounce of the red light on the heart monitor -- until sleep, too strong finally for even love and guilt to fight, pulled him under at last.

*****

He went to see Starsky at home a few nights later, after work. He knew Dobey had filled Starsky in on what had happened with Professor Jennings, so there was no pressing reason Hutch had to see him. He'd busied himself instead with writing up his report on the case. The next day he'd brought Starsky some clothes and magazines, but Starsky had been out of his room having tests done at the time, so Hutch gratefully dropped the stuff off with a nurse (who assured him that his friend was due back in a minute and wouldn't he please wait?) and left, though not quite at a run. He refused to think of it as running.

He'd dreamed up plenty of excuses -- Dobey had him working double shifts; Starsky needed rest, not visitors; the LTD was finally in the shop for a complete overhaul -- but they were all bullshit, and Starsky, healthy or not, had a fully functional bullshit detector. And after Hutch had dumped that cup of water on him at the station today -- well, he wasn't about to apologize for _that_ ; Starsky'd practically begged for it. That wasn't his fault, even if everything else was. But he had to see him sooner or later, and the longer he waited, the tougher he knew it would be.

Besides, Starsky was due to jet off to the Bahamas, and that would be two more weeks he'd have to wait.

Starsky answered his knock in a bathrobe and pajamas (the royal blue ones, Hutch realized), holding a beer. The canned sound of squealing tires and funky music drifted to Hutch's ears from behind his partner.

"Uh, hi," Hutch said.

Starsky grinned at him. "Where the hell have you been?" He looked back over his shoulder as loud gunshots erupted from the TV. "And why'd you have to show up in the middle of _Baretta_?"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_ about that." The automatic sarcasm relaxed Hutch briefly. He took a showy step backward. "I'll come back when you're not so busy -- "

"Get in here!" Starsky growled, pulling him unceremoniously inside and slamming the door behind him. "We can watch the rest of it together. You want a beer?" He darted into the kitchen before Hutch could answer. "Or some coffee? No, wait, it's cold. I'll get ya a beer." He opened the refrigerator and scanned its contents intently. "You hungry? I was gonna have some nachos -- "

"Starsk -- "

" -- or leftover mac 'n' cheese, just need to warm it up -- "

Hutch raised his voice. "Starsk!"

Starsky turned his head, a questioning look in his eyes.

"I, uh, I don't really want anything, thanks."

"Oh." Starsky paused. "Mind if I do?"

Hutch sighed. "No, I don't mind if you do. I just -- I just wanted to --" An ear-splitting scream assaulted him without warning. "Dammit, Starsk, can we turn that off?"

Starsky had turned away from him and was staring, round-eyed, at the TV. At Hutch's words, he glanced back. " _Now_? It's just gettin' to the good part! You ever watch this?" He pointed to the screen. "That guy drives like a fuckin' maniac. I dunno why they don't pull his license -- "

Hutch snatched up the remote and aimed with unerring accuracy at Robert Blake. The picture dissolved to a tiny dot, which lingered a moment and died.

Starsky said, a trifle lamely, "Hey!" before fixing his eyes sharply on Hutch's face.

"You can watch the reruns this summer," Hutch said, and tossed the remote onto the couch. He followed it down, slumping against the cushions and rubbing his hands over his face. He felt a bit -- a little bit -- of the tension leave him with the cessation of the noise.

"Well, ain't you got a nerve," he heard Starsky say behind him. " _You can watch the reruns this summer_."

There was a pause, and then Hutch felt the cushions shift under Starsky's weight. He kept his face in his hands and didn't look up. In a moment, an arm settled across his shoulders.

"Hey, what is it?" Starsky's voice was very soft.

Hutch shook his head. It wasn't easy to put it into words.

Starsky touched his hair. "You still mad about this morning?"

"No," Hutch said, impatiently. "I wasn't even mad then, really."

" 'Cause, you know, I was going to ask Dobey to let you go with me."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Come on, Starsk."

"I was! I thought we could both take a little time, do a little island-hopping, get some sun, meet some girls...you know."

"He wouldn't let us both go at once." He saw the protest on Starsky's lips, and interrupted quickly. "It doesn't matter anyway. I don't care about that. I hope you have a good time."

Starsky withdrew his arm and looked down at the carpet. "I'm not goin' now. Wouldn't be any fun without you."

Hutch sighed. "Well, don't throw it back in my face the first time you get pissed off at me."

Starsky's head jerked up as if he'd been stung. "Since when would I do that? I don't ever do shitty things like that! Say, what the hell is wrong with you tonight, anyway? You bust in on me without calling -- "

"Without _calling_? Since when do I need to call?"

"You turn my show off --"

"It's a stupid show!"

"You're mad at me over nothin', over some dumb vacation --"

" _I'm not_ _mad_!" Hutch bellowed, so loudly that Starsky winced and went quiet.

Hutch blinked, shocked. He softened his voice drastically. "I'm not mad," he repeated. "I didn't come over here to fight with you."

Starsky gazed straight ahead. "Why did you come? You didn't seem to give a damn up to now."

Hutch stared at him. "What?"

Starsky shrugged a little, not taking his eyes off the wall in front of him. "It's been five days since it happened. I hadn't seen you once till today, and then you told me to go home and threw a glass of water in my face." His voice wavered ever so slightly. "You haven't even called me."

Hutch couldn't answer him, and after a moment Starsky shrugged again. "I know. I haven't called you either. Should have, I guess."

Hutch sighed heavily. "No. I should have. I should have brought you home from the hospital, too. What'd you do, take a cab?"

Starsky nodded silently.

Hutch shook his head. "I'm sorry. Starsk, I'm sorry. And you've been alone here..." He let the sentence trail off. "Have you been -- I mean -- have you had any trouble getting to sleep or anything?" He didn't want to use the word _scared_.

Starsky shrugged again, and with some relief, Hutch saw the corner of his mouth turn up. "Nah. Just hit myself over the head with a hammer. Works every time."

Hutch laughed and put a hand on the back of Starsky's neck, stroking it gently.

Starsky's smile broadened, and he closed his eyes. "Mmm," he said. "That feels good."

Hutch reluctantly withdrew his hand. "Starsk," he began slowly, and stopped.

Starsky looked at him. "You finally gonna tell me what's going on?"

Hutch sighed. "I'm not just sorry about not coming to see you. I'm sorry about -- everything."

"Everything?"

"That night -- I mean, I left you. I got up in the middle of the night and left you here."

"So? Nothin' new about that."

"If I'd been with you where I belong -- "

Starsky smiled again. "You think you belong with me?" He touched Hutch's face gently. "Aw, that's nice, babe," he said softly. "That's real nice."

Hutch caught his hand and lowered it. "Starsky, come on. I'm being serious. If I'd been here Bellamy wouldn't have tried it. Yeah, they wanted me, too, but not at the same time. He wouldn't have been dumb enough to take us both on at once."

"Come on yourself. No way you could have known anything was gonna happen. You couldn't have known about Bellamy, or the toothpaste, or --"

Hutch blinked rapidly. "Toothpaste?"

"Yeah, that's where he put the drug. I sent it to the lab when I got home, and they -- " He broke off, staring at the expression on Hutch's face. "Oh, shit," he said, and sighed.

"I didn't know," Hutch whispered. "I didn't know. And I told you to brush --"

"Oh, shit, here we go again," Starsky muttered. Quickly he grabbed Hutch by the wrists. "Listen to me. It's not your fault. None of it's your fault. Neither of us knew. Neither of us _could_ have known. Bellamy was a scumbag, and Cheryl's dad -- well, he was just twisted. By grief. You're not responsible for that. You can't go through life thinkin' everything that hurts is something you could have stopped. You're a good cop, Hutch, but you ain't God."

Hutch closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. Then he said, "I don't think everything that hurts is something I could have stopped. Just everything that hurts you."

Starsky paused, and then cleared his throat. "Well, quit it. If I need a babysitter I'll hire one. And she'll have bigger tits than you, buddy."

Hutch managed a weak smile, which quickly faded. Oh God, how could he not have thought about the toothpaste? He knew Bellamy had drugged Starsky before he poisoned him. But in the wake of everything else that had happened, he'd forgotten all about that part of it. True, he couldn't have known anything was going down ahead of time, but -- he should have done _something_. He should have remembered the drug, dammit. He should have made Jennings tell him where it was. He should have come back to Starsky's apartment and torn it apart looking for it before Starsky ever got home. What if he'd brought Starsky that toothpaste to use in the hospital? He'd brought him other stuff. What if....

Starsky was looking closely at him, as though reading the thoughts behind his eyes. "In case it's slipped your mind," he said, "you did save my life, y'know."

Hutch barely heard him. His mind skipped frantically about, looking for blame to take in and cultivate. Just how potent had that paralyzing drug been? How badly would it have hurt Starsky on its own, if he'd used the toothpaste in the hospital? Would it have done any serious damage before they discovered it and treated him for it? Hutch didn't even know what it was or how it worked. He'd have to check with the lab --

" _Hey_!"

Hutch jumped, startled.

"Just makin' sure you were still in there. You wanna go to bed?"

Hutch blinked, making an effort to haul his thoughts back to the here and now. "Weren't you going to eat?"

"Yeah." Starsky looked momentarily distracted. Then his face cleared. "But, you know, it's not an _emergency_ or anything."

Hutch frowned. "Starsk, are you sure you're okay? Did the doctors say -- "

Starsky grinned suddenly. "They said I got low cholesterol."

Hutch's eyes widened. " _Low_ cholesterol? _You?_ "

"Don't believe it, do ya?"

Hutch laughed. "That's ridiculous. That's impossible. You must have misunderstood what they -- "

"Wait right here." Starsky disappeared into the bedroom and came back seconds later holding a piece of paper, which he dropped in Hutch's lap with a flourish.

Hutch picked it up. It was a handwritten note in the usual impenetrable physician's scrawl, but the important part, the part that said "Total cholesterol -- 145 mg/dl" was legible.

"That's low," Starsky said, helpfully.

Hutch nodded slowly. "That's low," he admitted.

"And it's official," Starsky added, pointing to the bottom of the page.

Hutch looked. There was a stamp in blurry black ink where Starsky's finger indicated.

He looked up at his partner. "You actually had this _notarized_?"

Starsky shrugged. "I've had free time the past coupla days. Got a lot of things done." He looked, Hutch noticed, eminently pleased with himself.

Hutch folded the paper in half. "I'm keeping this."

"Hey, that's mine!" Starsky made a futile grab for the note just as it disappeared into Hutch's shirt pocket.

"What's yours is mine, babe, remember?" Hutch patted the pocket with satisfaction. "I'll check it out. Probably some kind of lab mix-up."

"Hutch!"

"Or a clever forgery."

Starsky's eyes shifted slightly. "I wouldn't do that. You know I wouldn't. I'm just a medical miracle or something, I dunno. A freak of nature."

"Who notarized it for you? That girl in the DA's office? The one you flirt with every time we go over there? Lynn, Linda..."

"Lynette. Honest, Hutch, it's legit."

"Oh, I'm sure she thought it was. Probably thinks you're pretty hot, too, doesn't she?"

Starsky looked away. "Can't help that," he mumbled.

"Of course not. You wore your tightest jeans, didn't you?"

Starsky held up both hands impatiently. "I think we're gettin' way off the subject."

"What was the subject?"

"That I'm perfectly healthy. And it's late. You know, bedtime." He laid a hand on Hutch's thigh.

Hutch looked at the clock over the television. "It's not that late." The clock's hands stood at five minutes to ten.

"It's _damn_ late," Starsky said. "It's five days late." His voice dropped to a soft murmur. "You know I can't go that long without you, babe."

Hutch smiled. His guilt feelings had receded for now, replaced first by amusement, and now by sweet anticipation. "Yes, you can. You just did."

"But it _hurts_." Starsky slid his hand up Hutch's leg, stopping just short of his crotch. "It's not good for me."

"Sure it is. Teaches you self-discipline and restraint."

"Fuck that," Starsky said, and kissed him.

Hutch kissed back, or tried to, though it was difficult to move his lips under such a vigorous assault. He settled for sliding his hands beneath Starsky's pajama top, and then slowly, deliberately downward, under the waistband.

Starsky moaned into his mouth, then drew back suddenly and stood, leaving Hutch clutching blindly for him. "Come on," he said, and tugged at Hutch's arm. "Couch ain't big enough."

Hutch didn't argue. He followed Starsky into the bedroom, shedding his jacket and shirt as he went. He saw Starsky begin removing his own clothes, and put out a hand to stop him.

"No, let me," he said.

Starsky stopped, and smiled. "Okay."

Hutch pushed the robe and shirt off him, then pulled the pants down. Starsky stepped out of them, and Hutch caught him around the waist in a fierce hug, burying his face against his partner's neck.

"Hey," Starsky said softly. He returned the hug, stroking Hutch's naked back. "Don't have to hold on so tight. I'm not goin' anywhere."

Hutch felt his throat constrict. "Me neither," he whispered. "Not anymore." He pressed a kiss to the scar on Starsky's shoulder. "I'm staying all night long."


End file.
